


And everything else

by ecapss



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Suicide, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, I'm too tired to tag this, M/M, please read my warning in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-11 15:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15974732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecapss/pseuds/ecapss
Summary: He's tired. He's tired of being tired. He's broken, which never seemed to bother him before, but now it's the only thing he can be.





	1. He was, he was, he was

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please be warned. There is self harm/suicide attempts. If this is going to upset you, you can skip ahead to chapter two when i post it, or just maybe skip this one all together friendo, it gets dark.

Anti doesn’t want to die.

He knows this.

 

But he also knows himself. Knows his life is nothing more then a mockery of old intents. He’s long ago accepted thats as close as he'll ever get. He drinks and he smokes and at some point let the static of chaos envelop his mind enough to lose himself in the motions. A ghost on his feet driven by anything that steals his attention away from the increasing pressure of not feeling alive.

 

Not quite boredom, but purgatory full of one night stands and mundane screams that don’t trigger any real emotion. A watercolor of gunpowder and blood that blur the edges of his vision into a mess of horrible grey.

 

And then there’s Dark.

 

His mind always seems to pull him back to that void of a man. Anti’s never understood the inaccurate shadow of a reputation following him, preceding him, surrounding his path of influence. A second in his presence is enough for the blind to see the pure ambition for power, passion and rage all tensed within his being like a compressed spring. The rage of sputtering fire, still smoldering and deceivingly dangerous. It’s as if Anti's the only one who can see beyond whatever emotionless husk people like to depict him as. Dark is nothing short of a force, constantly under pressure, constantly waiting to snap into something more.

 

They would turn that judgment of apathy to himself, if they knew how little Anti felt these days. 

 

Even through the haze, he hates Dark. How easy everything is for him. How he waves an ever moving hand with a sharp tone and people fall to their knees. Stupid people. Stupid Dark. 

 

A flash of pain shoots though his hand, having accidentally clenched the blade he'd been holding in his mental tangents. His jaw tightens at the spots of blood dotting the intricate knife, one of his favorites, as he’s brought back to another day.

 

_“Holy shit that’s fuckin’ beautiful.” Anti moans exaggeratedly, running his fingers along the dark wood handle. The knife had been haphazardly thrown on top of Dark’s painfully organized desk, suspiciously out of place compared to the neat lines of pens and papers. Dark settles into his seat with a dismissive sigh._

_“Try to refrain from whatever knife kink you-“_

_“Actually.” Anti flashes a quick grin, fingertips dancing along the sharpened edge, eyes fixed on the way it shines. “It’s an inanimate object, which would make it a fetish.”_

_The beat of silence that follows feels like a warning, but when Anti dares a glance up from the lovely weapon, his breath stutters. Dark’s first open laugh is nothing like the typical half hearted scoff he barks out on occasion, but alive and bright in a way that overwhelms Anti with the pure rarity of the moment. Out of place, but beautiful; Just like the knife._

_“I’d hate to be an enabler, but I have a feeling you’ll appreciate that more then I ever will.” He flourishes a hand, and Anti tries not to choke on the horrible guilt of accepting a gift. He mumbles down at the floor, unwilling to fall into the abyss that is Dark’s eyes._

 

_“I was gonna steal it anyway.”_

 

_Again, the resulting laugh almost pulls his gaze in, but he keeps his eyes down on the pretty knife, a pretty nail in the coffin that is Dark Edwards._

 

_It was hours later in the early morning light when Anti wonders if Dark had left the knife out on purpose. His gut twists and the resulting implication has him wishing he had left it alone altogether._

 

Stupid, stupid Anti.

 

Briefly, theres an urge to laugh in his manic way, but Anti's lost the energy he’d put on if an audience were present. It's almost a point of pride for him, knowing exactly how to act around an audience. How to smile in a way that conveys murder. How to flash his eyes with a cackle that inspires chaos. He knows where to look and what to say and every single little tick that screams unstable. But alone, he has no persona to fill. He's hollow.

Anti straightens his shoulders and clears his throat.

 

“Ladies, gents, any and all.” He’s startled at the softness of his own voice, wondering if this is a reflection of some person he’d lost somewhere along the way. If this soft, sleepy character of quiet words and gentle motions is someone he could have been, should have been, if he hadn't lost his mind. Turned sharp, ruthless, _bitter_. He grips the handle, grounding himself. He isn't sure he'll be able to pull himself out of another episode.

 

“For his last night with us, I’d like to present-” A dramatic pause as he focuses on the cold air scratching his lungs with each breath, paranoia holding his next words back in his throat. He knows he's alone, crushingly so, but the looming figure of Dark never quite leaves his thoughts, a reflex of restraint when sharing anything vulnerable, anything honest is involved. He’d never had any desire too. Now theres no one to hear his confession, one of his highly protected secrets. It's been years since it's crossed his mind, let alone said aloud. 

 

“Sean McLoughlin!”

 

He'd never imagined that later, concerned people would ask why. Speculate what must have been going on in his mind. He himself doesn’t truly know the answer. 

He just needs something. Something new, something unexpected. To remove some fog poisoning his lungs with persistent weight. To stop the clock. He's been so tired, so tired of being tired. He needs and he hurts but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

 

He smiles, not his usual performance grin of sharp teeth and cutting glares, but a soft, sleepy upturn of the lips. His mind quiets as he lets his eyes fall shut.

 

“Enjoy the show.”

 

Anti violently jerks the knife across his throat, dropping it to the ground against his will as his body instinctively spasms from the searing pain. In a rush of emotion everything suddenly feels very real, terrifyingly so, with each heartbeat pounding against his skull pumping blood out on his hands, alive.

 

Anti doesn’t want to die. 

_There's a high whimper somewhere far away, he wishes it would stop._

He knows this.

_The warm slick is a blanket against the cold, that oppressive chill slowly draining from his bones._

He’s just tired of trying to be alive.


	2. Out of place like you and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't supposed to be a here, but now that there is Anti can't navigate though it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, hope it lives up

_He was always cold, so cold. Purple lips and blue bitten nail beds had become uniform next to circles of ash around each dull eye. Anti had never been bothered by his slender frame or the way his collar bones cut through paper skin. If anything, he found his appearance fitting. He hardly noticed._

 

_“Are you sick?”_

 

_But Dark did. Of course Dark did. That detail oriented bastard seemed to notice everything, as long as he was directly effected by it. If Anti let himself, he’d appreciate how hard it is to lie to Dark. How rare it is for Dark to successfully lie back._

 

_He didn't realize how well matched they used to be. The stalemate of power only infuriated him._

 

_“I know it’s a wild concept for a corpse,” Anti turns from his view of the city, willing himself to stop shaking, “But bodies tend to do this from time to time when it’s ass degrees outside.”_

 

_Dark runs a hand through his hair, making his way across the roof to lean against the railing._

 

_“For a child this may seem confusing, but adults tend to dress appropriately for expected weather conditions.”_

 

_Anti scoffs, uncomfortable with the man’s sudden interest in his well being. That his insults are now tolerated, sometimes even reciprocated. There’s no response that justifies his insane half formed thoughts. That sometimes it’s nicer to feel so cold your organs burn then nothing at all. If he can reassure Dark that it won’t effect the job hopefully he’ll be done with it. Anti kicks his duffle bag forward for emphasis._

_  
“Well I’m appropriately packed with a gun and some ammunition, so why don’t you worry about your job and I’ll handle mine?”_

 

_Dark wasn’t supposed to smile. Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to find Anti’s morbid sense of humor funny, or trust him as a partner. Anti wasn’t supposed to crave more of those smiles, or worry if Dark would return as planned. They hated each other, they yelled and threw things, left bruises and scratches, that’s what they were supposed to do._

 

_Anti wasn't supposed to believe that Dark actually cared._

 

_He jolts as a bundle of fabric is draped over him, Dark already standing in the doorway before he processes the movement, a shadow flickering in the dim light of burnt out stars._

 

_“I am worrying about my job. Can’t have a sniper with shaky hands.”_

 

_And then he's gone, leaving Anti alone with the winter sky and an overly formal coat wrapped around his shoulders. He plays with the buttons, willing away the awful thoughts he has every time they do this. That that could be the last time he sees Dark, a silhouette in the doorway with too much confidence and a knowing stare that looks like color in his black eyes._

 

_Framed against the night like that, he looks like an angel of death. A pang in Anti’s chest suggests that may not be far from the truth._

* * *

 

Fuzzy. Not static.

 

This is new.

 

His thoughts are fluffy, almost uncomfortably so with some important dream still clinging to his conscience. The fading cold is not enough to stop him from relaxing back into bed, turing to roll to a more comfortable position. 

 

Before he settles, his hands are pulled away from him, seemingly stuck on something up near his shoulders. His eyes twitch in annoyance, but don’t open, too sleepy to do anything but let the thoughts lazily slip away as he falls back into the quiet peace.

 

“Anti?” 

 

If he weren't so calm, he’d want to stomp his foot like a child in a tantrum. His relaxed muscles do nothing to stifle the whine of frustration at the interruption. Waking up after he’s finally able to drift off is upsetting, sleep an elusive luxury for the hacker.

 

“Anti, are you awake?”

 

The voice is a twist on something familiar, uninvited, but not threatening. It’s slightly too loud, adding to an uneasiness that builds in his mind until it’s a searing alarm. A content hum of acknowledgment cuts off to a panicked choke as the burn fills his chest. He’s suddenly incredibly aware that he lives alone and can’t move, that there’s an unwelcome hand on his shoulder and he needs it off _now_. His eyes snap open, too anxious to wait for his vision to clear before struggling to break free.

 

“Please calm down! There’s no need for alarm-”

 

“Alarm my-” He stops, frozen. Now the need to free his hands is overwhelming, and the man thankfully catches on, hurriedly unwrapping the elastic that secured Anti’s hands against the bed frame. Immediately they cover his face in an effort to not throw up. There’s too much to take in, and with difficulty Anti struggles through steps he’s memorized a thousand times. 

 

Breathe. Focus. Access.

 

The man is one of Dark’s friends. They’ve met once before, when he needed stitches. A doctor. Probably safe.

 

He is on a strange bed with an IV sticking out from his left hand. Irritating, but most likely safe.

 

But his voice?

His voice sounds grated and wrong and nothing like it should. His hands slide down to confirm the existence of a large bandaid around his neck that’s ever so slightly suffocating.

 

“I’m sorry you had to be restrained.” The doctor notices the rising fear and tries to calm it, but severely misunderstands the source. “It was necessary to ensure you wouldn’t pull at the bandage in your sleep.”

 

There’s a range of responses Anti entertains, from leaning forward and biting the fuckers hand to ripping himself out of the bed and escaping the situation completely, but the heavy force of being alive, the consequences that come with it sicken his lungs too much to breathe properly, let alone inspire a snarky reply. The doctor continues.

 

“You were in critical condition, but should except full recovery within the month if you follow up with the proper care.” His voice is far too normal, cheery even, for the crushing guilt swallowing Anti whole. “I’m not entirely confident about your voice, but the fact that you can speak now is a good sign.”

 

The words are so conceptual, everything seems to be broken into meaningless parts, that Anti hesitates in his understanding. He had never been particularly vain, but the way his voice chimes like shattered glass keeps his lips drawn in a tight line. People already underestimate him, never taking him seriously, and now with an unsteady broken voice his words seem to have lost any intimidation factor. He flinches as his own raspy whisper twists it’s way through the air.

 

“How did I get here?” 

 

Noticeably concerned, the doctor looks up from the pill bottle he’d been fidgeting with.

 

“This injury shouldn’t have triggered any memory gaps, although I suppose the blood loss itself could have made things a bit hazy.” He shrugs, “Dark brought you, who else?”

 

Dark. The name plunges all of his tangled emotions into ice. Despite just waking up, the burn in his eyes returns, constant exhaustion still dragging his limbs down. He pieces everything together with the doctors last words, and it all shuts down.

 

“You're lucky you didn't go on that job alone, otherwise you wouldn't have lived.”

* * *

 

Dark had lied on his behalf. 

 

At some point the pain medication had become too much, his thoughts too slow to process the situation logically. He’d half heartedly agreed to stay three days, more then he wanted, a compromise for the week that Dr. Iplier demanded of him. So he sleeps and picks at the edge of the thick bandage wrapped around his neck, trying his best not to think about anything.

 

And Dark doesn’t come to see him.

 

Anti isn’t sure if that’s a good thing.

 

Eventually, he wakes up and knows its for good. He’s unsure of the time but confident he won’t be able to fall back asleep without at lest confronting his endless list of questions. Pushing himself off the bed is dream like, hazily following the glow of various medical tools to wander beyond the room he'd been confined in.

 

After a hallway of doors and a small flight of stairs, Anti stops. There he is, but not really. This Dark isn’t the figure haunting his mind, brooding and intimidating, ready to strike. This man wears grey loose fitting pajamas with a dull look of sleep clouding his eyes. With a start, Anti realizes he’s only seen Dark in casual attire twice. Uncombed hair is pushed out of his face by the hand he rests his head against, glasses slightly tilted. He looks younger, less sharp, but still Anti’s chest tightens at the sight of him though the doorway. 

 

_Dark is an angel of death._

 

“I’m sure Dr. Iplier wouldn’t approve of your early release.”

 

Even in his least presentable state, his presence and that god damn voice of his still has a hold on Anti. His throat closes, unable to expose how broken and fucked up he is next to this poster child for control.

 

To his credit, Dark barley moves as his computer screeches, the screen glitching to a mess of pixels before settling on a nondescript text box. He pushes his glasses up to read the appearing text, scrolling slowly as if someone were typing.

 

_Why did you lie?_

 

He raises an eyebrow, addressing the screen instead of Anti directly. He isn’t sure if he's grateful or irritated, but Dark’s always had issues with eye contact when uncomfortable, so he silently sits in the chair across from him, playing with his own chipped nail polish.

 

“I thought it easier for the both of us. Less to explain.” 

 

While he suspects it had more with Dark not knowing how to explain, he’s thankful for the cover up’s privacy. The next question appears on screen.

 

_How did you find me?_

 

“I-” Not quite a voice crack, but an unplanned swallow, as if his compliance to answer surprises him, cuts him off. Anti watches his adams apple bop down and wonders if this is the most human Dark's ever been. “Left my jacket. The night before. Wanted it back before you had a chance to destroy it.”

 

A coincidence. Anti is in pain and alive and forced to face all of this alone because a fucking coincidence. Dark interrupts before he can begin to unpack the whirlwind of thoughts that come out of that.

 

“Anti, you _can’t_ do that again.” His blood freezes, the sincerity in Dark’s tone mixed with the odd, short sentences so different from his typical eloquence. This man in front of him is a side of Dark he's not sure anyones seen, certainly not in it’s unfiltered entirety.

 

“Because in simple terms,” Dark looks away, closing his eyes with a wrinkle. “That really fucking sucked.”

 

The screen flashes before he can help himself, impulsive and rash 

 

_Sorry that trying to kill myself ruined your evening. Next time I’ll make sure theres nothing to save._

 

A particular light catches in Dark’s tired eyes, as if explaining to a child the heat death of the universe. A slurred, uncomfortable stiffness of tongue that makes every word seem a struggle.

 

“I was covered in your blood-”

 

“I didn’t ask for your help!” The scream is full os spite and hurt that takes both of them by surprise. Anti tries to lower his tone, but his rusted voice breaks and makes the words uneven and jumpy. “You made that choice.”

 

Something shifts in the mans demeanor, something his tantrums had never seemed to effect before, and Anti watches with perhaps morbid curiosity as the man takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes, barley controlled under the surface.

 

“No. No I didn’t. You didn’t leave me with a choice, you left me with a punishment. You left me with a corpse, bleeding out next to my own knife, over my own jacket, reminder after reminder of my failure and there was fuck all I could do about it!” 

 

The words end on a yell that makes Anti close his eyes, rage dissipating into nausea, suddenly feeling too small in comparison. He hears a harsh breath, Dark forcing his shoulders down and the conflicting heat from his tone. 

 

“Whatever you left me with, you can’t be upset that I tried. I have to try.”

 

This whispered confession sounds so soft, so genuine, that Anti doesn’t try to fight his need to stare. He’s never seen Dark’s demeanor so defeated, but unlike the stupid joy Anti usually feels when earning an emotion from Dark, sadness looks all too natural, horribly wrong framed on the mans heavy shoulders. Defeat is an emotion Anti didn't know Dark had, but he hears it in the conclusion of his defense.

 

“I’m sorry. For yelling. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

Anti didn't know he was crying. He had been too shocked that Dark is hurt because of him, something he never thought he had the power to do. Instinctively, he wipes at his cheek, still in disbelief, but deciding to return the favor of what he hoped was honesty.

 

“Fuck Dark, I- I can’t have this conversation with you.”

 

Dark turns the computer off and leans on the desk, head in hands as he harshly drags one through his hair.

 

“I’m aware we aren't on the best of terms but I thought I knew you better then this. Maybe that’s my fault, but can we put all that aside and just talk?” 

 

Anti swallows, feeling both far away and painfully close to a vacuum that leaves him dizzy and disoriented. He plays with his fingers, finally accepting this grey uncertainty had become his future unlike the pitch black finality of a period.

 

“I don’t know what to say, I wasn’t prepared to get this far. I-” He’s alive, and with a daring burst of confidence Anti realizes he’s never had less too lose, so he finally breathes the words that had been poisoning his thoughts for months. He’s not accusing, just lost. 

 

“Why are you pretending to care?” 

 

At this, Dark finally offers him an amused ghost of a smile. Anti’s confused, having not earned the sight in his usual antics, but in this bleak unfamiliar territory. He’ll take the small comfort.

 

“Am I the type of person to discomfort myself for others benefit?”

 

The answer is as easy for Anti to answer as it is for Dark to ask, response almost immediate.

 

“No.”

 

“Then what makes you think I’m pretending?” The words are light, almost teasing, but Anti has difficultly pulling the truth from them, believing their meaning.

 

_He’s not pretending._

 

“Thanks.” 

 

 _For saving me, for caring. For entertaining my fucked up mind. For coming back._ There’s a lot he wants to say, but he starts with what he can.

 

“It’s alright.”

 

Anti’s mind comes crashing back into his body, jamming the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars and shales so hard he isn't sure his words are audible to himself, let alone Dark.

 

“No it’s really fucking not! I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I can’t afford to be broken anymore! I have shit to do and places to be and theres no reason for me to feel bad all the time, I just do and I fucking hate it.” Pouting like a toddler pulls a sad laugh from him, afraid to look up after the outburst. “It’s just always awful.”

 

Dark had just saved his life and here he was working himself back up, being ungrateful. He regrets the words more then any other part of the night, but when a gentle hand tilts his chin up, the man having moved in front of him with shining eyes and warm hands, Anti’s not sure he can truly regret anything that leds to Dark looking at him like he's solved everything.

 

“Let me rephrase,’ He awkwardly opens his arms, the gesture timid and out of place. “It may not be at the moment, but as long as you're alive, now it can be alright.”

 

The blur of motion makes Dark jump, Anti wanting to laugh at the confusion on his face as he throws himself violently into the much needed hug. They’re ridiculous, and fucked up, and Anti would spend forever discussion such matters, but he has priorities.

 

“If I fall asleep, can you promise not to be a dick again whenever I decide to wake up? I can’t handle being tired anymore.”

 

Dark holds him closer as Anti slumps into him, burying his head on his shoulder to hide a smile.

 

“I think I’ll manage.”

* * *

 

There’s a waning period, one in which his jaded mind still nervously looks down at Dark’s silent smiles, where his chest still feels open and picked raw by panicked thoughts, but it ebbs and drips out of his eyes and words with each mumbled midnight conversation. He’s angry, of course Dark’s angry, but Anti suspects it’s misjudged fear. Whatever the case, Dark was right, eventually things become alright.

Slowly, that warmth trickles back into his veins, first through the arms he sleeps in to starve nightmares away but then in the light lingering touches, or concerned wrinkle of the eyes. Glances that speak to him rather then strip away. Rough hands to pry his bitten nails from picking at his stitches, healing into a jagged white line while his smile heals out of it. Lightness in his chest as he’s nudged awake, having fallen asleep over various computer screens, then pulled into quiet evenings.

There’s an odd softness to Dark that seems to sand down his own edges. They still fight, and threaten, and everything in-between, neither of them can be classified as an easy partner, but whatever they are works. Whatever they are clears Anti’s eyes until more color can drip back into the world, like raindrops against the window where they sit together to watch the thunderstorms pass.

 

Anti didn't want to die, and now he gets to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside, I hope this doesn't come off as “Dark saved anti from his depression” because he didn’t. this is not a “mental illness is cured by the power of love”. Anti, in this, is isolated and lonely to the point where it consumes everything else. I am happy to write an entire fuckin behind the scenes analysis of why Dark helps, but the spark notes is connection. Anti refused to accept his own want for connection and it tore him apart. If he could have gone outside his head, he would have seen Dark doing the same, with the presents, with the pretty subtle flirting (Dark is a gift giver yaALL)   
> This only works because of isolation, and positive (idk at least his version of positive) relationships in all ways help get out of mental states.
> 
> That being said, heres an undeserved happy ending. Hope it wasn't too out of place.

**Author's Note:**

> That being said, I didn't want this to have a happy ending. I'm in a weird mood where a sad ending feels like it belongs here.
> 
> But I'm weak. I am afraid of sad endings. I think there are so many sad endings where I wish there weren't. They leave my heart open and my brain muddled. 
> 
> It may be out of character, it may be a reach, but if this is a world where I get to made a happy, if not neutral ending. This story doesn't deserve one, but we do. 
> 
> I wasn't gonna post this until I had finished the next chapter, because I don't want you to feel the uneasiness of an unfulfilled cliffhanger, but hopefully this spoiler of a warning is enough to tide any of you fellow sad bastards over.
> 
> Next chapter at some point soon.


End file.
